Fic: Impressionist (for ladyeternal)
Title: Impressionist
Author: ♥ astra_sequi ♥
Recipient: ladyeternal
Rating: PG
Genre and/or Pairing: Pre-slash Peter/Neal
Spoilers: Brief allusions to Hard Sell and Vital Signs
Warnings: None
Word Count: 7035
Prompt: Neal & Peter go out of town on a case and they are bumped to a better-class suite due to an overbooking at the hotel. Peter takes the opportunity to seduce Neal.
Summary: The prompt about covers it.
“It’s blank.”
“Yes, Peter, I realize that.”
Neal rolled his eyes, even though from his position, he knew Peter would not be able to see it. That was a shame; really, he knew Peter hated it when he rolled his eyes at him. He always told Neal he was being juvenile and disrespectful. Neal could not help but roll his eyes again as the little Peter voice inside his head repeated those words at him.
“Don’t roll your eyes at me, Caffrey. It’s juvenile and disrespectful” Peter warned.
Before he could actually think to stop himself, Neal snorted a chuckle, which turned into a laughing fit. He was so happy that Peter had actually spoken, and he did not have a Peter voice inside his head. It might have also been the lack of sleep and larger quantities of caffeine fueling his absurd amusement, but for now, he just settled with riding out his laughter.
On the other side of the room sitting on a small couch, Peter watched Neal practically spasm on the floor with laughter. He was torn between telling Neal to shut up and asking if he was okay. Instead of doing either, he simply reclined into the overstuffed couch and watched. It was the first time Peter had ever had the distinct annoyance of watching Neal work.
When Peter and Neal were required to travel New Jersey for an undercover mission, they had both been excited. Neal was excited because he would be traveling across state lines, and given free reign to con a mark. Peter, while not quite as excited since he had to make sure Neal did not overstep his “free reign,” was excited to finally see Neal paint something original. The quality of forgeries Neal had produced required no small amount of talent, and Peter admired that kind of talent, especially if it was directed towards more legal purposes. Even though he really wanted Neal to stop calling the suspect a mark and the entire operation a con, Peter let it slide if it let Neal get the job done.
Neal’s cover was going to be a struggling artist looking for a patron to back his art career, with the full intention of getting the attention of a particular patron. The FBI suspected him of finding these young artists and using them to make forgeries of just about everything. After extensive surveillance and a lot of paper trailing, the FBI managed to track their suspect to the wealthiest county in New Jersey. The goal was to have Neal get his attention and become one of the man’s forgers. Once he was let in on the suspect’s operations, the FBI would swoop in and save the day. At least, that was what they were hoping for. With Neal, there could possibly be a few hitches in the plan, or rather, there was just about a guarantee something was going to go wrong, but the upper brass of the FBI had their own personal Neal tamer.
Sometimes, that was what Peter felt like with the way he was always chasing Neal, even though the man was supposed to be on a two mile radius and obeying the rules of the FBI. But sometimes, Peter was fine with it. There was no doubt Neal was smart, and as he liked to point out, he liked smart, and generally speaking, he liked Neal. But at the end of the day, the liking bit was completely separated from the predominantly annoyed part. He was annoyed with Neal, quite often actually, especially when Neal did not do what he was told. He was very good at that. True, Peter understood that Neal never meant any harm by his unorthodox and questionably legal methods, and he accomplished so much more than the FBI could have done, but he also understood that Neal did not understand consequences. Neal’s impulse control was next to non-existent and Peter had no idea how a full grown man could still be that way. His working hypothesis maintained that Neal was still a kid, or more accurately, still saw the entire world like one. There was something he had heard once, about true geniuses and something to do with a child. Sometimes, Peter thought that maybe Neal was a true genius at his work because he saw the world from such a different perspective.
Of course, penguins were going to be ice skating in hell before Peter ever admitted he thought Neal was genius. However, Peter was perfectly fine treating him like the overgrown kid he was.
“Come on already, Neal. You have to finish that painting before tomorrow, and you need to finish it at a reasonable time because I am not going to let you stay up all night,” admonished Peter.
“Peter, Peter, Peter. Do you not understand that art can’t be made on order like that, especially since you guys told me to paint whatever I thought would work best?” Neal asked, his laughter dying down a bit. The tell tale gleam in his eyes still conveyed his previous amusement as he rolled over so he was lying on his stomach. “If you really want this guy to pick me out of all those other guys showing off their paintings, it can’t just be anything. It has to reach out, and then pull you in. That comes from inspiration, not because somebody told me to.”
By the end of his explanation, Neal was grinning, softer now, and idly tapping his fingers against the floor. Peter pursed his lips in though before pushing himself off the couch and walking over to a small table near the large French doors leading to a balcony. Stepping over Neal’s inconveniently placed body; Peter loosened his tie and plopped into the much firmer chair. A small sigh escaped his lips as he continued to watch Neal watch nothing. He had a feeling he would be loosing this argument.
“Fine, but tell your inspiration to hurry up, will you?” Peter prodded, “And get off the floor. It can’t be that clean and if you stay there any longer, you’ll catch a chill.”
“I’ll catch a chill? Peter, what era and country were you raised in?” Neal asked with no small hint of sarcasm. Still, he reluctantly did as he was told and pushed himself off the floor and onto his knees. “Happy now?”
Peter shook his head. “Not until you get off the floor completely. If you sit down at the table like a normal human being, we’ll finish up that chess game.”
Neal mulled it over a bit before standing up and stretching. With a smug grin, he nodded his head once.
“Fine. Maybe beating you again will inspire me,” he commented, “Pieces still where we left them?”
Peter rolled his eyes and motioned towards the small travel board. The tiny magnetic pieces were spattered across the board, with Peter having a small collection of white ones while Neal had fewer black pieces.
“Peter, don’t roll your eyes, it’s juvenile and disrespectful,” Neal quipped as he sat down in his chair with all the grace of a lazy cat.
Making a soft disgruntled sound, but otherwise remaining silent, Peter moved a pawn forward. Then, without much forethought, Neal moved his own pawn. It was immediately taken by Peter. Again, with seemingly no goal in mind, Neal moved a knight and carelessly watched it removed from the board. He tilted his head to the side ever so slightly as he studied the man across from him.
As for Peter, he decided to ignore the staring and focus on what tactic Neal was currently employing in their game. They were fast approaching what he considered to be the endgame and he could already plot out the quickest way to checkmate. But he was leery of Neal’s carefree attitude with his own pieces. As far as Peter could tell, there were few moves left open for Neal, which did not fit in with his usual character. So, he decided to take a more subtle approach. It required a few more moves than a straight attack, but it would also give him the time to figure out what Neal was planning.
“Ah, I see what you did there. Clever,” Neal mused aloud, his tone glaringly playful.
His tone and Cheshire cat grin immediately set off warning bells in Peter’s head. There was definitely a plot in motion. Now, he was wondering if it would have been a better idea to have stayed with the straight forward attack. Holding back a sigh and wishing he could take his move back, Peter pushed forward with his plan of attack and waited for whatever Neal had planned. It became painfully obvious Neal knew exactly what Peter was trying to do and the fact that he was doing nothing to really stop him gave Peter a sense of impending defeat.
“Checkmate in one,” Peter declared.
“You’re a really sneaky guy, you know that?” observed Neal.
“You’re admitting defeat?” Peter tried to keep the hopeful tone out of his voice and quite successfully covered with his incredulity.
The only answer he received was an expectant look and sly smile. Neal hummed softly to himself as his eyes flicked across the table, not really focusing on the board. His gaze drifted towards the windows and the sun still brightly shining through the thin haze of clouds. When his eyes shifted from the view outside the window to the view right across from him, Neal’s eyes widened.
“I got it!” Neal suddenly exclaimed.
Peter practically jumped from the sudden noise and stared questioningly at Neal.
“You got what?” he asked.
Instead of answering his question, Neal excitedly bounced from his seat in an almost agitated manner. As he was about to leave the table and approach the easel a short distance away, Neal absentmindedly moved a piece on the board.
“Checkmate,” Neal mumbled.
Once again, Peter was torn between two actions. On one hand, he wanted to know what got Neal into such a tizzy, and on the other, he wanted to know what just happened to his almost victory. Seeing as Neal was occupied with quickly arranging his easel while fumbling around with the paint and brushes, Peter figured he would study the chess board and let Neal paint.
The pieces sat unobtrusively and as Peter examined them more closely, he realized what he had done. Unable to prevent a rueful grin, Peter shook his head. He had been so busy double guessing what Neal had been planning the whole time that he completely missed the straight forward and basic tactic. Had he stuck with his original endgame, Peter knew he would have won. Neal played off his natural suspicion to his advantage. He was about to turn in his chair and comment on Neal’s playing style, but was immediately prevented from doing so by an excessively loud and urgent yell.
“Don’t move!” Neal shouted.
His tone of voice and the suddenness of it caused Peter to freeze in his chair, muscles tensed.
“No, no, go back to what you were doing,” Neal demanded with an almost childish whine. “Keep studying the board like you were doing before and don’t move.”
Peter had the strongest urge to get up from his chair and demand Neal explain himself, but as he studied the quick movements and intense focus Neal was giving the canvas and the messy puddles of color smearing the palate and his shirt, Peter gradually began relaxing into his chair again, elbow resting on the armrest supporting his head. Even though Neal instructed, or more like ordered him to study the board, Peter watched him out of the corner of his eye. He was more interested in studying Neal. And just like he thought, watching Neal create art made this entire trip more than worth it.
Neal’s brushstrokes were short and quick. Globs of color were practically thrown onto the canvas and then smeared around into blurs and shadows of objects. His brows were slightly furrowed and his eyes rapidly flicked all across the canvas. He continually shifted his weight, always moving, and seemed to frown in frustration. The movement of his hand and arm would speed up until he was forced to back off again, in which case, he would frown all the more and then work up the same agitated motion again. There was always a pressing need to move onto the next part, but the previous section was still unfinished. It was as if his mind was working faster than his body could possibly keep up, and that was unacceptable.
By now, the sun had moved its position in the sky, and Peter was growing stiff in his seat. He was comfortable enough, but he really needed to move his legs and take the pressure off his protesting elbow. However, he took in the nervous energy Neal was projecting with his body language and resigned himself to sit in the same position as long as he needed. There was no telling what kind of fit Neal would throw if Peter interrupted his creative flow, and in all honesty, he did not want to disturb Neal. All the energy Neal seemed to posses in endless supply was being focused solely on his art, and most importantly, he was keeping out of trouble. Peter wondered if channeling that energy into something productive, and legal, would benefit Neal in the long run.
“You can move now if you want,” Neal offered.
His voice was softer and his movement far less animated. Peter let out a heavy sigh and stretched his legs. One knee popped while the other leg suffered from pins and needles common for a numb limb. When he released the pressure on his elbow, it sounded like two stones being ground together and Peter grunted from the slight discomfort.
“You’re done then?” he asked.
“No, not quite.” Neal leaned back a moment, then hunched forward and resumed painting. “Just some background details.”
Peter took that to mean he could get up and actually walk around, so he did. He pushed the chair to the side and carefully made his way to where Neal was standing. Making sure to give him a wide berth, he maneuvered around so he could look over Neal’s shoulder as he worked. He stopped breathing for a fleeting moment.
“Damn, Neal,” Peter muttered.
Neal suddenly paused mid-stroke and looked warily over his shoulder.
“What? What’s wrong, what did I do?” he asked in rapid succession.
Snapping out of his awed daze, Peter shook his head and was quick to reassure him.
“Nothing, it’s just,” Peter fumbled around for something to convey his appreciation for what he was seeing. “That’s really good.”
At Neal’s arched eyebrow and disbelieving smirk, Peter mentally slapped himself for his lack of pretty words to express his thoughts. Pretty words were something Elizabeth and Neal were good at. Regardless of pretty words though, Neal seemed to understand what Peter was trying to say and slowly nodded his head.
“So it’s okay?” he asked.
Now it was Peter’s turn to cock an eyebrow. He had been expecting a snide or witty comment about how “good” was not even close to what it really was. Instead, he was surprised by something else entirely. It was not every day Neal looked at him with cautious nervousness and a pleading in his eyes almost hoping for approval. Actually, this was the first time he had ever seen such an expression on Neal’s face. He was not prepared to deal with the emotion simmering just below the surface.
“What part of, ‘that’s really good,’ did you not get?” Peter asked gruffly.
While some people might accuse Peter of being insensitive at times, his gruff manner worked just fine for Neal who grinned happily and eagerly continued his work. Peter refrained from letting out a sigh of relief. Mentally checking himself to keep quiet, Peter resumed watching Neal paint.
The colors blended together, the borders defining each object in space soft and undefined. From a distance, it looked like Neal was using a single color to paint the broad surfaces and bright backgrounds, but upon closer inspection, it was actually a myriad of colors in broad streaks, bleeding into the next stroke. The brush moved in short strokes, but was still graceful and deliberate. His palate was layered in paint and Neal had resorted to using his shirt, pants, and skin to test and mix paint.
“So is it just you, or do all artists manage to get more paint on their clothing than the canvas?” Peter wryly observed.
“Depends on the person,” Neal answered as he dabbed on some paint, studied it, then took the tube of paint and applied a large glob of it straight onto the canvas. “Normally, I try not to get paint everywhere, but sometimes…sometimes it just doesn’t matter so long as I can get what I see onto a surface.”
“Interesting.” Peter crossed his arms, tilted his head and studied the painting some more. “You’re telling me once inspiration hits, you just need to paint it?”
Neal hummed in agreement as he began adding the finishing touches on his painting.
“Or draw, or whatever I have on hand,” Neal mused, “Once, I drew a whole mural on one of those cloth table tops with a sharpie.”
Peter laughed at what a scene that must have been. Then again, he had no doubt it looked like a masterpiece when he was done with it. It really was a shame that so much talent was lost amongst years of illegal activities, running, and a prison sentence.
“If that’s the case, I should keep you inspired more often. Might keep you out of trouble,” Peter mused with a small grin.
“Aw, Peter, you always inspire me,” Neal said.
The first instinct Peter had was to tell Neal not to be a smartass. However, from Neal’s careless tone of voice, distracted air, and body language, Peter knew his knee-jerk reaction was wrong. Without forethought and truly living in the moment, Neal was being honest. Peter was not sure how to react to that. He was still trying to process the level of trust Neal admitted to have for him. It was difficult to accept even though every part of him wanted to believe it and Peter wanted to be able to reciprocate that trust. But that nagging feeling that Neal could always run, especially now that Kate was involved, made him hold back. Nevertheless, he did recall a multitude of conversations he had with Elizabeth concerning his hopes and fears. There was so much to lose and yet all the more to gain, all dependant on Neal. Never being one to back down, Peter settled his resolve.
“And I’m done,” Neal declared.
Reverently setting down his brush, he picked up a tube of paint and squeezed a small amount into the palm of his hand. Then, picking up a finer brush, Neal carefully stained the tip and signed the painting with a sweeping flourish. The pale gold blended with the color of the painting while sticking out enough to be noticed. When he finished, he took a few steps back and let his gaze roam over the painting. As he took in the freshly painted details, Neal let out a soft, rueful sigh.
“You know, it still feels like I’m making a forgery, like it’s still not something I can take credit for,” observed Neal. “It may be my alias, but it’s not me.”
There was something almost regretful in his voice as he admired his work. But before Peter could comment on it, Neal grinned and slapped Peter on the shoulder genially.
“So you think our guy’s going to go for it?” Neal asked, well aware he was definitely going to stick out from the rest.
Not bothering to answer the question they both knew the answer to, Peter just lightly shoved Neal towards the small bathroom near the entrance of their hotel room.
“Good work, now go get cleaned up and I’ll order room service,” directed Peter.
Wiping the paint off his hand on his pants, Neal frowned and called over his shoulder, “Hey, Peter, grab me something to wear, will you? And don’t worry; I made sure to pack only colors that go with each other, so not even you can screw that up.”
“Yeah, yeah, just get in the shower and don’t get paint all over anything,” Peter grumbled, “They’ll probably charge for any paint stains…Hughes already thinks this place is too expensive.”
Their hotel was not one of the nicer hotels; actually, according to most of the locals in the county, it was considered one of the lowest end ones. But to Peter, it was one of the nicest places he had ever stayed during an operation. It was a lot more spacious than he usually occupied and more importantly, it had a wonderful television for viewing the games and there was no dog commandeering the bed. Then again, he knew he was understating it.
For some reason only known to the management of hotels, their initial room had been given to another patron and for some mysterious reason, there were no other rooms available. Peter had been tired of chasing their perpetrator and was about to go FBI all over the stiff receptionist, but at the last minute, Neal had managed to slip his way in. After a blinding smile and a smoothly crafted lie, the receptionist had been smiling dreamily and handing him a set of room keys. Peter had pretended he did not notice the way she stared after Neal as they had walked towards the elevators.
When the door to the elevators had finally shut, Peter turned on Neal and demanded to know what he did. Neal had simply informed he used his wonderful people skills and the very nice young lady had been kind enough to give them their largest suite for the same price as a regular room. Peter had every intention to protest about such accommodations, but he had been immediately silenced when Neal opened the door. The suite had all the amenities of a house and a grand balcony overlooking the streets. There had been nothing Peter could complain about, especially since they were getting it for the same price, so it was not like the FBI had to foot a larger bill. And in the end, the extra space would make it more difficult to keep an eye on Neal, but it did make it easier for Neal to work.
Peter nodded his head in approval as he rummaged through a large closet trying to grab one of Neal’s outfits. Since Neal said everything was supposed to match, Peter did not bother to look at what he was grabbing. Whatever item he needed, he grabbed the first one he came to. By the time he finished, he had arms full of clothes that were noticeably not anything Neal tended to wear. A pair of worn jeans that had seen better days, and a generic black shirt, Peter could almost believe Neal was just a typical young artist. But of course, he knew Neal and he guessed that the ratty clothing he was carrying probably cost more than the hotel they were staying at.
Making his way to the bathroom, occasionally dropping an item here and there, Peter knocked on the door and pushed it open.
“I’m setting the clothes on the counter,” Peter informed Neal.
“Please tell me you managed not to screw up?” Neal asked playfully over the sound of running water.
“Jeans and a shirt. How very pedestrian of you,” he retorted.
As he was shutting the door, he noticed the neatly folded clothing Neal had been wearing. Each article of clothing was carefully turned inside out and folded so that no painted surface touched the floor. Peter shook his head. If Elizabeth knew how neat Neal was even with paint demolished clothing, he would never hear the end of it. Peter was neat enough to know he needed to throw his dirty clothing in a hamper, but folding dirty clothes was a whole different story. If they were going to be washed anyways, what was the point of folding them?
“I’m supposed to be an artist, so it fits the image we’re trying to set up,” Neal suddenly explained patiently, much like he would if he was talking to a particularly slow child, “And while you’re out there pondering what I look like without my clothes on, could you wash the brushes? You do know the proper way to wash brushes, right?”
Peter did a double take and glared disbelievingly at the shower curtain. That put an image in his head he did not want. And yet, for some reason, he could not stop thinking about it. He glared even harder at the curtain.
“Yes, I know how to clean brushes, and what the hell, Neal?!” Peter yelled.
Laughter bounced off the walls and Neal’s head peeked out from the side of the curtain.
“We~ll…You could have just put the clothes on the counter, but you stayed in here staring at what, I don’t know, and so I simply assumed-“
“Don’t assume. Stop assuming right now. I’m going to go clean your damn brushes, and stop dripping water all over the floor,” Peter growled as he stormed out of the bathroom.
Shutting the door behind him with a sigh, Peter took a couple of deep breaths to control the slight heat he could feel rising to his cheeks. Grumbling to himself, Peter went about the tedious, but careful task, of rinsing the brushes. Thankfully, Neal used only a few brushes, so it was not going to take too long to do.
As he went about his business, he would sporadically pause to stare at the painting. On any other occasion, he would have argued against being the subject of a painting. But in this instance, he was willing to let it slide. The impressionist style of the painting made it vague enough so the identity remained a fairly generic man in a suit, but based off the little chess set and the bright light streaming through the window, Peter would always know it was of him. He was the one that inspired Neal.
Shaking his head from the sudden onslaught of sentimental thoughts, Peter finished washing the brushes just as Neal stepped out of the bathroom. Small droplets of water fell to the floor from his still dam hair. He rubbed a towel roughly over his hair some more and Peter was confused how towel dried hair could still look good. But, leave it to Neal to find a way to make it work.
“Alright, brushes are washed, so what do you want to eat?” Peter asked, trying hard not to study Neal so obviously.
“I want a salad; a damn good one too,” Neal answered as he slung the towel over his shoulder, “And, Peter, I know I’m just that good looking, but honestly, you creep me out when you stare at me like that.”
Peter fought the urge to cringe at that statement. Whether he wanted to cringe because of the creepy part, or because of the good looking part, he did not know. All he could think about was how annoying Neal could be, and how annoying he could be when he was right. And of course, Neal was enjoying the obvious discomfort he was causing Peter. But sometimes, the usual, playful discomfort would be some sort of tense discomfort setting Neal on edge. Ever since they arrived and were bumped into a higher class room, Neal noticed the way Peter seemed more anxious than he usually did before an undercover operation. Then, when he made his usual comments that tended to ease the pressure of a situation, Peter seemed to tense all the more. Neal had no clue why Peter was acting that way and began to worry that he did something wrong.
Oblivious to each other’s wonderings, Peter picked up the phone and ordered their room service while Neal went over to his painting and studied it. From a critical perspective, Neal knew he had the composition perfect and the warm color tones blended and swirled into each other beautifully. Everything was a perfect representation of the impressionist style, yet beyond the analytical perfection of his work, there was something that made the picture resonate within him. Whenever he had worked on original works of art, he never cared for them beyond what they could get him or they were simply a way to expel pent up energy. In this instance though, Neal was drawn to his own painting and a part of him was loathe showing it around tomorrow. He wanted to keep it, but when he looked at the initials in the corner, that little part of him grew quiet.
“Hey, you okay?”
Neal jumped and turned at the voice over his shoulder. Peter stood right behind him, and had been for a while.
“Yeah, I’m good. I’m just making sure everything’s right for tomorrow,” Neal lied.
Peter nodded his head, not believing a word of it, but instead of backing off like he usually would, he stepped even closer so he was barely brushing Neal’s back. He did not need to touch Neal to see the way his muscles tensed. Though they continued to stand still for a long three seconds, Peter could see the way Neal’s eyes quickly took in his surroundings while somehow still keeping track of Peter. It was the prelude leading to whether Neal would stay or run. Over the three years of chasing him, Peter knew the signs and he hoped, far stronger than he would ever like to admit, that Neal would stay. After a few more seconds passed and Neal still remained where he was standing, Peter decided it was a good enough sign.
“You know, when we’re done with this operation, you can keep your painting,” Peter informed Neal quietly. “It really would be a shame to go to waste. It’s good; really good.”
His voice was low and soft and Neal was almost afraid to turn around to face him.
“Thanks, I’m glad you like it…Peter,” Neal almost tripped over his own words, “So, uh, do you think Elizabeth would like it?”
Turning to face Peter while simultaneously stepping back, Neal was able to look Peter in the eye and create distance. Peter pretended not to notice.
“I know for a fact El would love it,” he replied, “Maybe sometime you can paint one of her?”
“Of course, I’d love to.” Neal smiled. “Painting a picture of Elizabeth is the perfect cure for all that bureaucratic paperwork. Seriously, that stuff can’t be healthy.”
“Oh, wait until you do it for ten years. It just keeps getting better,” remarked Peter.
Neal crossed his arms and smirked.
“Ten years? You own me for four. You still think I’ll be around?” he asked.
A non-committal grunt came from Peter who stood with his hands on his hips.
“I would hope so. You do good work for the FBI and we’d be fools to not keep you around.”
They stared at each other, each at ease and ignoring the underlying current of tension.
“Would you want me around?” prodded Neal.
There was no hesitation.
“Yes,” Peter answered.
An unnatural silence filled the space between them. There was more Peter wanted to say, but right now, Neal was the one who needed to be given control.
“Peter, are you trying to flatter me into not running?” The teasing voice hid the real question. Are you telling me the truth?
“El would have my head if you ran,” Peter just as easily replied. I don’t want to lose you.
Neal hummed to himself, making a show of considering his options, before flashing Peter a bright smile and a wink.
“Well, if you keep this up, I just might have to stay.”
It was not a profession of his undying loyalty to the bureau, or to Peter, but it was close enough for now and already more than Peter thought possible. Their trip may work out better than planned.
Before Peter or Neal could say anymore, there was a knock on the door from room service. Peter repressed a sigh at the interruption and opened the door while Neal cleaned off the table.
“Here’s your salad,” Peter dropped a covered plate in front of Neal and set his own dish on the table.
A bottle of wine was set out next and Neal arched an eyebrow.
“Wine? I would have pinned you for ordering a couple of beers,” he said as he picked up the bottle. “Peter, you are amazing. You managed to pick out the crappiest year possible for this wine, but I totally give you an ‘A’ for effort.”
Peter rolled his eyes as he sat down.
“What does it matter? Wine is wine is wine,” he defended.
“No, wine is not a rose so that doesn’t work,” Neal argued. “And what about that whole rolling eyes thing?”
“Shut up and just eat your food,” Peter grumbled.
It was impossible to not grin as Neal watched Peter pour the wine into a couple of glasses without a care in the world about angle and preparation. He carefully slid one of the glasses over to Neal who picked it up and sniffed it.
“Well, you could have done so much worse than this,” observed Neal. “And seriously, Peter? Are you seriously guzzling down wine alongside a cheeseburger?”
“What’s wrong with a cheeseburger? Do you have something against cheeseburgers?” Peter asked.
Neal shook his head with a somewhat amused expression.
“I have nothing against cheeseburgers.” Neal took another small sip from the wine glass. “I’m just wondering about your eating habits.”
Just to annoy Neal, Peter picked up his glass and took a particularly large gulp of wine.
“It all goes to the same place,” Peter sagely answered.
Giving Peter a look that told him Neal did not believe a word of it, Neal set his glass down and began picking at his salad. They passed the time in companionable silence, punctuated with the occasional asinine commentary, and towards the end of the meal, Neal poured himself another glass of wine. He found it curious that he stopped caring about the taste after a few glassfuls. After finishing his fourth glass off, Neal rested his arms on the table and began babbling about the operation tomorrow.
“So what are we going to do if he doesn’t like me?” Neal asked, words not quite slurred, but not quite as clear as usual.
Peter shrugged.
“I don’t think you have to worry about that. You made Hughes like you,” Peter pointed out.
“Psh, Hughes doesn’t like me at all,” Neal scoffed.
“No, he likes you…as much as he’s willing to like you anyways.” Peter actually could not tell if Hughes liked Neal, but he figured it would be a safe bet to assume he did, in his own way. There were not that many people in their building that did not like Neal.
Neal nodded his head tiredly and laughed.
“Good to know,” Neal said, “Though there’s something else I’d like to know. This guy doesn’t use guns, right? I mean, he’s not gun happy like that Avery guy, right?”
As far as Peter knew, their suspect did not resort to any weapons, but there was always that possibility. People were always capable of doing the unexpected when pushed into a corner. But, Peter kept his mind from such thoughts and hoped that their current record of getting by unharmed remained in tact.
“Not that we know of,” Peter admitted, “But I promise you, I won’t let anything happen to you.”
The suddenly tense and blank expression on Neal’s face surprised Peter, and at first, he was a little disappointed that Neal was thinking he would let something happen, but when he looked down to hide his indignation, Peter realized he was holding Neal’s hand.
Retracting his hand as if it were burned, Peter flushed and fiddled with his empty wine glass. Neal just remained frozen in the same position, his fingers twitching every so often. Finally, Peter became too uncomfortable with the looming tension and abruptly stood up. Out of the corner of his eye, Neal watched Peter begin to pace back and forth in a way that meant he was thinking too hard about something. Once again, the anxiety and nervous energy Peter was creating agitated Neal.
“Okay, I’m going to chalk this up to drunkenness, but what is this, Peter?” Neal suddenly blurted out. “You’ve been like this for a while now, and it’s even more noticeable since we’ve arrived. Is something wrong?”
Peter stopped his pacing, almost tripping over his own feet, and stared intently at Neal.
“Yes, I mean no. There’s nothing wrong. It’s just that I…” Peter threw his hands up in frustration and roughly ran his hand through his hair. “Dammit, Neal, I’m trying to seduce you!”
It was now out in the open, all the cards on the table. Peter unknowingly held his breath while he waited for Neal to answer.
“Seduce me?” Neal asked incredulously.
For a moment, Peter feared the worst when Neal failed to react in even the slightest bit. His blank expression remained firmly in place. That is, until there was the faintest twitches at the corners of his mouth. Peter slowly let out his breath.
“Peter, you do know that seduction is supposed to be alluring and filled with hidden, passionate lust,” Neal explained, his expression beginning to falter, “It’s not supposed to be, well, creepy.”
Peter did a double take when he heard that. The look of righteous indignation was too much for Neal’s tipsy mind to handle. He burst out laughing and could not stop himself.
“Creepy? I wasn’t being creepy. I really was being alluring and whatever else you said,” defended Peter.
This just caused Neal to laugh even harder to the point he fell out of his chair and had to hold his side. His breathing came in gasps as he failed to stop laughing long enough to take a breath.
“Unbelievable. This is what I get for all my efforts,” Peter grumbled to himself, “Dammit, that means El was right…I should have taken the note cards.”
Somehow, over the sound of his own laughter, Neal managed to hear that last part.
“Note cards? Really?!”
A new bout of hysterical laughter began anew and Peter figured it was probably best to just let Neal get it out of his system; which actually happened faster than he thought. It took longer than usual, but eventually Neal’s mind caught up with him and he realized what Peter had just said. The instantaneous shift from laughter to silence was jarring.
“Wait. Elizabeth wrote you note cards on how to seduce me?” Neal asked.
Peter nodded his head.
“But that would mean she’s okay with that?” The pitch of Neal’s voice climbed just a little bit higher.
There was another nod.
“And that would mean you’re actually serious about me?” He pointed to himself.
“I’m not telling you this because I think you laughing at my romantic overtures is fun,” retorted Peter. He exhaled loudly. “Neal, I mean everything I said.”
They lapsed into silence once more, but this time, there was no words left unsaid, no emotions hanging in the air threatening to suffocate them. It was a simple silence of coming to terms with life’s new direction.
“I’m flattered? No…I’m happy, Peter,” Neal softly rambled, “But there is so much that could go wrong with this, even though…even though I really want this to work.”
There was no need for Peter to answer. He knew exactly how their relationship could go wrong. Peter was never one to jump head first without thinking through the consequences. They could both lose their jobs and not to mention the legal trouble it could cause. But, Peter knew he would always have his wife, whereas Neal did not have anybody. And that did not sit well with Peter. Despite everything Neal had ever done, complete loneliness was not something he needed to be punished with.
It would take time, and a whole lot of work and headaches, but Peter sincerely hoped that, even if they lost their jobs, Neal would still have somebody he could turn to and trust.
“You don’t have to jump on the bandwagon right this minute,” Peter offered, “I just want you to know I’m willing to try and make this work, and God bless her, so is El.”
Neal pursed his lips as he processed what he was hearing.
“I need to talk to Elizabeth, and you, but for now, I really want this.” Neal made a vague waving motion indicating himself, Peter, and all the in between. “And you know I’m always up for a challenge.”
Peter could not help but smile and nod his head eagerly.
“I wouldn’t expect it any other way,” he agreed, “And when this is all over, I promise you we will talk as much as we need to, and when we get back, Elizabeth is already planning a day out just for you two.”
Maybe it was the change in their relationship, or the alcohol clouding his mind, but Neal Caffrey was elated and grinning his brightest smile at Peter.
“Great! We can talk all about how much you fail at seduction,” Neal joked.
With an embarrassed glare, Peter flipped the bird.
“Here or the bed?” Neal asked with a saucy grin and wink.
“Unbelievable,” Peter muttered under his breath. He shook his head and rolled his eyes at Neal’s smug giddiness.
“Hey, remember, rolling your eyes is juvenile and disrespectful,” Neal pointed out gleefully.
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Peter pulled out his cell phone and prepared to call Elizabeth. As he dialed her number, he could hear Neal laughing and enjoying himself in the background. This was going to definitely be a lot of work.
If you read this, please leave a review for the author.
Author: ♥ astra_sequi ♥
Recipient: ladyeternal
Rating: PG
Genre and/or Pairing: Pre-slash Peter/Neal
Spoilers: Brief allusions to Hard Sell and Vital Signs
Warnings: None
Word Count: 7035
Prompt: Neal & Peter go out of town on a case and they are bumped to a better-class suite due to an overbooking at the hotel. Peter takes the opportunity to seduce Neal.
Summary: The prompt about covers it.
“It’s blank.”
“Yes, Peter, I realize that.”
Neal rolled his eyes, even though from his position, he knew Peter would not be able to see it. That was a shame; really, he knew Peter hated it when he rolled his eyes at him. He always told Neal he was being juvenile and disrespectful. Neal could not help but roll his eyes again as the little Peter voice inside his head repeated those words at him.
“Don’t roll your eyes at me, Caffrey. It’s juvenile and disrespectful” Peter warned.
Before he could actually think to stop himself, Neal snorted a chuckle, which turned into a laughing fit. He was so happy that Peter had actually spoken, and he did not have a Peter voice inside his head. It might have also been the lack of sleep and larger quantities of caffeine fueling his absurd amusement, but for now, he just settled with riding out his laughter.
On the other side of the room sitting on a small couch, Peter watched Neal practically spasm on the floor with laughter. He was torn between telling Neal to shut up and asking if he was okay. Instead of doing either, he simply reclined into the overstuffed couch and watched. It was the first time Peter had ever had the distinct annoyance of watching Neal work.
When Peter and Neal were required to travel New Jersey for an undercover mission, they had both been excited. Neal was excited because he would be traveling across state lines, and given free reign to con a mark. Peter, while not quite as excited since he had to make sure Neal did not overstep his “free reign,” was excited to finally see Neal paint something original. The quality of forgeries Neal had produced required no small amount of talent, and Peter admired that kind of talent, especially if it was directed towards more legal purposes. Even though he really wanted Neal to stop calling the suspect a mark and the entire operation a con, Peter let it slide if it let Neal get the job done.
Neal’s cover was going to be a struggling artist looking for a patron to back his art career, with the full intention of getting the attention of a particular patron. The FBI suspected him of finding these young artists and using them to make forgeries of just about everything. After extensive surveillance and a lot of paper trailing, the FBI managed to track their suspect to the wealthiest county in New Jersey. The goal was to have Neal get his attention and become one of the man’s forgers. Once he was let in on the suspect’s operations, the FBI would swoop in and save the day. At least, that was what they were hoping for. With Neal, there could possibly be a few hitches in the plan, or rather, there was just about a guarantee something was going to go wrong, but the upper brass of the FBI had their own personal Neal tamer.
Sometimes, that was what Peter felt like with the way he was always chasing Neal, even though the man was supposed to be on a two mile radius and obeying the rules of the FBI. But sometimes, Peter was fine with it. There was no doubt Neal was smart, and as he liked to point out, he liked smart, and generally speaking, he liked Neal. But at the end of the day, the liking bit was completely separated from the predominantly annoyed part. He was annoyed with Neal, quite often actually, especially when Neal did not do what he was told. He was very good at that. True, Peter understood that Neal never meant any harm by his unorthodox and questionably legal methods, and he accomplished so much more than the FBI could have done, but he also understood that Neal did not understand consequences. Neal’s impulse control was next to non-existent and Peter had no idea how a full grown man could still be that way. His working hypothesis maintained that Neal was still a kid, or more accurately, still saw the entire world like one. There was something he had heard once, about true geniuses and something to do with a child. Sometimes, Peter thought that maybe Neal was a true genius at his work because he saw the world from such a different perspective.
Of course, penguins were going to be ice skating in hell before Peter ever admitted he thought Neal was genius. However, Peter was perfectly fine treating him like the overgrown kid he was.
“Come on already, Neal. You have to finish that painting before tomorrow, and you need to finish it at a reasonable time because I am not going to let you stay up all night,” admonished Peter.
“Peter, Peter, Peter. Do you not understand that art can’t be made on order like that, especially since you guys told me to paint whatever I thought would work best?” Neal asked, his laughter dying down a bit. The tell tale gleam in his eyes still conveyed his previous amusement as he rolled over so he was lying on his stomach. “If you really want this guy to pick me out of all those other guys showing off their paintings, it can’t just be anything. It has to reach out, and then pull you in. That comes from inspiration, not because somebody told me to.”
By the end of his explanation, Neal was grinning, softer now, and idly tapping his fingers against the floor. Peter pursed his lips in though before pushing himself off the couch and walking over to a small table near the large French doors leading to a balcony. Stepping over Neal’s inconveniently placed body; Peter loosened his tie and plopped into the much firmer chair. A small sigh escaped his lips as he continued to watch Neal watch nothing. He had a feeling he would be loosing this argument.
“Fine, but tell your inspiration to hurry up, will you?” Peter prodded, “And get off the floor. It can’t be that clean and if you stay there any longer, you’ll catch a chill.”
“I’ll catch a chill? Peter, what era and country were you raised in?” Neal asked with no small hint of sarcasm. Still, he reluctantly did as he was told and pushed himself off the floor and onto his knees. “Happy now?”
Peter shook his head. “Not until you get off the floor completely. If you sit down at the table like a normal human being, we’ll finish up that chess game.”
Neal mulled it over a bit before standing up and stretching. With a smug grin, he nodded his head once.
“Fine. Maybe beating you again will inspire me,” he commented, “Pieces still where we left them?”
Peter rolled his eyes and motioned towards the small travel board. The tiny magnetic pieces were spattered across the board, with Peter having a small collection of white ones while Neal had fewer black pieces.
“Peter, don’t roll your eyes, it’s juvenile and disrespectful,” Neal quipped as he sat down in his chair with all the grace of a lazy cat.
Making a soft disgruntled sound, but otherwise remaining silent, Peter moved a pawn forward. Then, without much forethought, Neal moved his own pawn. It was immediately taken by Peter. Again, with seemingly no goal in mind, Neal moved a knight and carelessly watched it removed from the board. He tilted his head to the side ever so slightly as he studied the man across from him.
As for Peter, he decided to ignore the staring and focus on what tactic Neal was currently employing in their game. They were fast approaching what he considered to be the endgame and he could already plot out the quickest way to checkmate. But he was leery of Neal’s carefree attitude with his own pieces. As far as Peter could tell, there were few moves left open for Neal, which did not fit in with his usual character. So, he decided to take a more subtle approach. It required a few more moves than a straight attack, but it would also give him the time to figure out what Neal was planning.
“Ah, I see what you did there. Clever,” Neal mused aloud, his tone glaringly playful.
His tone and Cheshire cat grin immediately set off warning bells in Peter’s head. There was definitely a plot in motion. Now, he was wondering if it would have been a better idea to have stayed with the straight forward attack. Holding back a sigh and wishing he could take his move back, Peter pushed forward with his plan of attack and waited for whatever Neal had planned. It became painfully obvious Neal knew exactly what Peter was trying to do and the fact that he was doing nothing to really stop him gave Peter a sense of impending defeat.
“Checkmate in one,” Peter declared.
“You’re a really sneaky guy, you know that?” observed Neal.
“You’re admitting defeat?” Peter tried to keep the hopeful tone out of his voice and quite successfully covered with his incredulity.
The only answer he received was an expectant look and sly smile. Neal hummed softly to himself as his eyes flicked across the table, not really focusing on the board. His gaze drifted towards the windows and the sun still brightly shining through the thin haze of clouds. When his eyes shifted from the view outside the window to the view right across from him, Neal’s eyes widened.
“I got it!” Neal suddenly exclaimed.
Peter practically jumped from the sudden noise and stared questioningly at Neal.
“You got what?” he asked.
Instead of answering his question, Neal excitedly bounced from his seat in an almost agitated manner. As he was about to leave the table and approach the easel a short distance away, Neal absentmindedly moved a piece on the board.
“Checkmate,” Neal mumbled.
Once again, Peter was torn between two actions. On one hand, he wanted to know what got Neal into such a tizzy, and on the other, he wanted to know what just happened to his almost victory. Seeing as Neal was occupied with quickly arranging his easel while fumbling around with the paint and brushes, Peter figured he would study the chess board and let Neal paint.
The pieces sat unobtrusively and as Peter examined them more closely, he realized what he had done. Unable to prevent a rueful grin, Peter shook his head. He had been so busy double guessing what Neal had been planning the whole time that he completely missed the straight forward and basic tactic. Had he stuck with his original endgame, Peter knew he would have won. Neal played off his natural suspicion to his advantage. He was about to turn in his chair and comment on Neal’s playing style, but was immediately prevented from doing so by an excessively loud and urgent yell.
“Don’t move!” Neal shouted.
His tone of voice and the suddenness of it caused Peter to freeze in his chair, muscles tensed.
“No, no, go back to what you were doing,” Neal demanded with an almost childish whine. “Keep studying the board like you were doing before and don’t move.”
Peter had the strongest urge to get up from his chair and demand Neal explain himself, but as he studied the quick movements and intense focus Neal was giving the canvas and the messy puddles of color smearing the palate and his shirt, Peter gradually began relaxing into his chair again, elbow resting on the armrest supporting his head. Even though Neal instructed, or more like ordered him to study the board, Peter watched him out of the corner of his eye. He was more interested in studying Neal. And just like he thought, watching Neal create art made this entire trip more than worth it.
Neal’s brushstrokes were short and quick. Globs of color were practically thrown onto the canvas and then smeared around into blurs and shadows of objects. His brows were slightly furrowed and his eyes rapidly flicked all across the canvas. He continually shifted his weight, always moving, and seemed to frown in frustration. The movement of his hand and arm would speed up until he was forced to back off again, in which case, he would frown all the more and then work up the same agitated motion again. There was always a pressing need to move onto the next part, but the previous section was still unfinished. It was as if his mind was working faster than his body could possibly keep up, and that was unacceptable.
By now, the sun had moved its position in the sky, and Peter was growing stiff in his seat. He was comfortable enough, but he really needed to move his legs and take the pressure off his protesting elbow. However, he took in the nervous energy Neal was projecting with his body language and resigned himself to sit in the same position as long as he needed. There was no telling what kind of fit Neal would throw if Peter interrupted his creative flow, and in all honesty, he did not want to disturb Neal. All the energy Neal seemed to posses in endless supply was being focused solely on his art, and most importantly, he was keeping out of trouble. Peter wondered if channeling that energy into something productive, and legal, would benefit Neal in the long run.
“You can move now if you want,” Neal offered.
His voice was softer and his movement far less animated. Peter let out a heavy sigh and stretched his legs. One knee popped while the other leg suffered from pins and needles common for a numb limb. When he released the pressure on his elbow, it sounded like two stones being ground together and Peter grunted from the slight discomfort.
“You’re done then?” he asked.
“No, not quite.” Neal leaned back a moment, then hunched forward and resumed painting. “Just some background details.”
Peter took that to mean he could get up and actually walk around, so he did. He pushed the chair to the side and carefully made his way to where Neal was standing. Making sure to give him a wide berth, he maneuvered around so he could look over Neal’s shoulder as he worked. He stopped breathing for a fleeting moment.
“Damn, Neal,” Peter muttered.
Neal suddenly paused mid-stroke and looked warily over his shoulder.
“What? What’s wrong, what did I do?” he asked in rapid succession.
Snapping out of his awed daze, Peter shook his head and was quick to reassure him.
“Nothing, it’s just,” Peter fumbled around for something to convey his appreciation for what he was seeing. “That’s really good.”
At Neal’s arched eyebrow and disbelieving smirk, Peter mentally slapped himself for his lack of pretty words to express his thoughts. Pretty words were something Elizabeth and Neal were good at. Regardless of pretty words though, Neal seemed to understand what Peter was trying to say and slowly nodded his head.
“So it’s okay?” he asked.
Now it was Peter’s turn to cock an eyebrow. He had been expecting a snide or witty comment about how “good” was not even close to what it really was. Instead, he was surprised by something else entirely. It was not every day Neal looked at him with cautious nervousness and a pleading in his eyes almost hoping for approval. Actually, this was the first time he had ever seen such an expression on Neal’s face. He was not prepared to deal with the emotion simmering just below the surface.
“What part of, ‘that’s really good,’ did you not get?” Peter asked gruffly.
While some people might accuse Peter of being insensitive at times, his gruff manner worked just fine for Neal who grinned happily and eagerly continued his work. Peter refrained from letting out a sigh of relief. Mentally checking himself to keep quiet, Peter resumed watching Neal paint.
The colors blended together, the borders defining each object in space soft and undefined. From a distance, it looked like Neal was using a single color to paint the broad surfaces and bright backgrounds, but upon closer inspection, it was actually a myriad of colors in broad streaks, bleeding into the next stroke. The brush moved in short strokes, but was still graceful and deliberate. His palate was layered in paint and Neal had resorted to using his shirt, pants, and skin to test and mix paint.
“So is it just you, or do all artists manage to get more paint on their clothing than the canvas?” Peter wryly observed.
“Depends on the person,” Neal answered as he dabbed on some paint, studied it, then took the tube of paint and applied a large glob of it straight onto the canvas. “Normally, I try not to get paint everywhere, but sometimes…sometimes it just doesn’t matter so long as I can get what I see onto a surface.”
“Interesting.” Peter crossed his arms, tilted his head and studied the painting some more. “You’re telling me once inspiration hits, you just need to paint it?”
Neal hummed in agreement as he began adding the finishing touches on his painting.
“Or draw, or whatever I have on hand,” Neal mused, “Once, I drew a whole mural on one of those cloth table tops with a sharpie.”
Peter laughed at what a scene that must have been. Then again, he had no doubt it looked like a masterpiece when he was done with it. It really was a shame that so much talent was lost amongst years of illegal activities, running, and a prison sentence.
“If that’s the case, I should keep you inspired more often. Might keep you out of trouble,” Peter mused with a small grin.
“Aw, Peter, you always inspire me,” Neal said.
The first instinct Peter had was to tell Neal not to be a smartass. However, from Neal’s careless tone of voice, distracted air, and body language, Peter knew his knee-jerk reaction was wrong. Without forethought and truly living in the moment, Neal was being honest. Peter was not sure how to react to that. He was still trying to process the level of trust Neal admitted to have for him. It was difficult to accept even though every part of him wanted to believe it and Peter wanted to be able to reciprocate that trust. But that nagging feeling that Neal could always run, especially now that Kate was involved, made him hold back. Nevertheless, he did recall a multitude of conversations he had with Elizabeth concerning his hopes and fears. There was so much to lose and yet all the more to gain, all dependant on Neal. Never being one to back down, Peter settled his resolve.
“And I’m done,” Neal declared.
Reverently setting down his brush, he picked up a tube of paint and squeezed a small amount into the palm of his hand. Then, picking up a finer brush, Neal carefully stained the tip and signed the painting with a sweeping flourish. The pale gold blended with the color of the painting while sticking out enough to be noticed. When he finished, he took a few steps back and let his gaze roam over the painting. As he took in the freshly painted details, Neal let out a soft, rueful sigh.
“You know, it still feels like I’m making a forgery, like it’s still not something I can take credit for,” observed Neal. “It may be my alias, but it’s not me.”
There was something almost regretful in his voice as he admired his work. But before Peter could comment on it, Neal grinned and slapped Peter on the shoulder genially.
“So you think our guy’s going to go for it?” Neal asked, well aware he was definitely going to stick out from the rest.
Not bothering to answer the question they both knew the answer to, Peter just lightly shoved Neal towards the small bathroom near the entrance of their hotel room.
“Good work, now go get cleaned up and I’ll order room service,” directed Peter.
Wiping the paint off his hand on his pants, Neal frowned and called over his shoulder, “Hey, Peter, grab me something to wear, will you? And don’t worry; I made sure to pack only colors that go with each other, so not even you can screw that up.”
“Yeah, yeah, just get in the shower and don’t get paint all over anything,” Peter grumbled, “They’ll probably charge for any paint stains…Hughes already thinks this place is too expensive.”
Their hotel was not one of the nicer hotels; actually, according to most of the locals in the county, it was considered one of the lowest end ones. But to Peter, it was one of the nicest places he had ever stayed during an operation. It was a lot more spacious than he usually occupied and more importantly, it had a wonderful television for viewing the games and there was no dog commandeering the bed. Then again, he knew he was understating it.
For some reason only known to the management of hotels, their initial room had been given to another patron and for some mysterious reason, there were no other rooms available. Peter had been tired of chasing their perpetrator and was about to go FBI all over the stiff receptionist, but at the last minute, Neal had managed to slip his way in. After a blinding smile and a smoothly crafted lie, the receptionist had been smiling dreamily and handing him a set of room keys. Peter had pretended he did not notice the way she stared after Neal as they had walked towards the elevators.
When the door to the elevators had finally shut, Peter turned on Neal and demanded to know what he did. Neal had simply informed he used his wonderful people skills and the very nice young lady had been kind enough to give them their largest suite for the same price as a regular room. Peter had every intention to protest about such accommodations, but he had been immediately silenced when Neal opened the door. The suite had all the amenities of a house and a grand balcony overlooking the streets. There had been nothing Peter could complain about, especially since they were getting it for the same price, so it was not like the FBI had to foot a larger bill. And in the end, the extra space would make it more difficult to keep an eye on Neal, but it did make it easier for Neal to work.
Peter nodded his head in approval as he rummaged through a large closet trying to grab one of Neal’s outfits. Since Neal said everything was supposed to match, Peter did not bother to look at what he was grabbing. Whatever item he needed, he grabbed the first one he came to. By the time he finished, he had arms full of clothes that were noticeably not anything Neal tended to wear. A pair of worn jeans that had seen better days, and a generic black shirt, Peter could almost believe Neal was just a typical young artist. But of course, he knew Neal and he guessed that the ratty clothing he was carrying probably cost more than the hotel they were staying at.
Making his way to the bathroom, occasionally dropping an item here and there, Peter knocked on the door and pushed it open.
“I’m setting the clothes on the counter,” Peter informed Neal.
“Please tell me you managed not to screw up?” Neal asked playfully over the sound of running water.
“Jeans and a shirt. How very pedestrian of you,” he retorted.
As he was shutting the door, he noticed the neatly folded clothing Neal had been wearing. Each article of clothing was carefully turned inside out and folded so that no painted surface touched the floor. Peter shook his head. If Elizabeth knew how neat Neal was even with paint demolished clothing, he would never hear the end of it. Peter was neat enough to know he needed to throw his dirty clothing in a hamper, but folding dirty clothes was a whole different story. If they were going to be washed anyways, what was the point of folding them?
“I’m supposed to be an artist, so it fits the image we’re trying to set up,” Neal suddenly explained patiently, much like he would if he was talking to a particularly slow child, “And while you’re out there pondering what I look like without my clothes on, could you wash the brushes? You do know the proper way to wash brushes, right?”
Peter did a double take and glared disbelievingly at the shower curtain. That put an image in his head he did not want. And yet, for some reason, he could not stop thinking about it. He glared even harder at the curtain.
“Yes, I know how to clean brushes, and what the hell, Neal?!” Peter yelled.
Laughter bounced off the walls and Neal’s head peeked out from the side of the curtain.
“We~ll…You could have just put the clothes on the counter, but you stayed in here staring at what, I don’t know, and so I simply assumed-“
“Don’t assume. Stop assuming right now. I’m going to go clean your damn brushes, and stop dripping water all over the floor,” Peter growled as he stormed out of the bathroom.
Shutting the door behind him with a sigh, Peter took a couple of deep breaths to control the slight heat he could feel rising to his cheeks. Grumbling to himself, Peter went about the tedious, but careful task, of rinsing the brushes. Thankfully, Neal used only a few brushes, so it was not going to take too long to do.
As he went about his business, he would sporadically pause to stare at the painting. On any other occasion, he would have argued against being the subject of a painting. But in this instance, he was willing to let it slide. The impressionist style of the painting made it vague enough so the identity remained a fairly generic man in a suit, but based off the little chess set and the bright light streaming through the window, Peter would always know it was of him. He was the one that inspired Neal.
Shaking his head from the sudden onslaught of sentimental thoughts, Peter finished washing the brushes just as Neal stepped out of the bathroom. Small droplets of water fell to the floor from his still dam hair. He rubbed a towel roughly over his hair some more and Peter was confused how towel dried hair could still look good. But, leave it to Neal to find a way to make it work.
“Alright, brushes are washed, so what do you want to eat?” Peter asked, trying hard not to study Neal so obviously.
“I want a salad; a damn good one too,” Neal answered as he slung the towel over his shoulder, “And, Peter, I know I’m just that good looking, but honestly, you creep me out when you stare at me like that.”
Peter fought the urge to cringe at that statement. Whether he wanted to cringe because of the creepy part, or because of the good looking part, he did not know. All he could think about was how annoying Neal could be, and how annoying he could be when he was right. And of course, Neal was enjoying the obvious discomfort he was causing Peter. But sometimes, the usual, playful discomfort would be some sort of tense discomfort setting Neal on edge. Ever since they arrived and were bumped into a higher class room, Neal noticed the way Peter seemed more anxious than he usually did before an undercover operation. Then, when he made his usual comments that tended to ease the pressure of a situation, Peter seemed to tense all the more. Neal had no clue why Peter was acting that way and began to worry that he did something wrong.
Oblivious to each other’s wonderings, Peter picked up the phone and ordered their room service while Neal went over to his painting and studied it. From a critical perspective, Neal knew he had the composition perfect and the warm color tones blended and swirled into each other beautifully. Everything was a perfect representation of the impressionist style, yet beyond the analytical perfection of his work, there was something that made the picture resonate within him. Whenever he had worked on original works of art, he never cared for them beyond what they could get him or they were simply a way to expel pent up energy. In this instance though, Neal was drawn to his own painting and a part of him was loathe showing it around tomorrow. He wanted to keep it, but when he looked at the initials in the corner, that little part of him grew quiet.
“Hey, you okay?”
Neal jumped and turned at the voice over his shoulder. Peter stood right behind him, and had been for a while.
“Yeah, I’m good. I’m just making sure everything’s right for tomorrow,” Neal lied.
Peter nodded his head, not believing a word of it, but instead of backing off like he usually would, he stepped even closer so he was barely brushing Neal’s back. He did not need to touch Neal to see the way his muscles tensed. Though they continued to stand still for a long three seconds, Peter could see the way Neal’s eyes quickly took in his surroundings while somehow still keeping track of Peter. It was the prelude leading to whether Neal would stay or run. Over the three years of chasing him, Peter knew the signs and he hoped, far stronger than he would ever like to admit, that Neal would stay. After a few more seconds passed and Neal still remained where he was standing, Peter decided it was a good enough sign.
“You know, when we’re done with this operation, you can keep your painting,” Peter informed Neal quietly. “It really would be a shame to go to waste. It’s good; really good.”
His voice was low and soft and Neal was almost afraid to turn around to face him.
“Thanks, I’m glad you like it…Peter,” Neal almost tripped over his own words, “So, uh, do you think Elizabeth would like it?”
Turning to face Peter while simultaneously stepping back, Neal was able to look Peter in the eye and create distance. Peter pretended not to notice.
“I know for a fact El would love it,” he replied, “Maybe sometime you can paint one of her?”
“Of course, I’d love to.” Neal smiled. “Painting a picture of Elizabeth is the perfect cure for all that bureaucratic paperwork. Seriously, that stuff can’t be healthy.”
“Oh, wait until you do it for ten years. It just keeps getting better,” remarked Peter.
Neal crossed his arms and smirked.
“Ten years? You own me for four. You still think I’ll be around?” he asked.
A non-committal grunt came from Peter who stood with his hands on his hips.
“I would hope so. You do good work for the FBI and we’d be fools to not keep you around.”
They stared at each other, each at ease and ignoring the underlying current of tension.
“Would you want me around?” prodded Neal.
There was no hesitation.
“Yes,” Peter answered.
An unnatural silence filled the space between them. There was more Peter wanted to say, but right now, Neal was the one who needed to be given control.
“Peter, are you trying to flatter me into not running?” The teasing voice hid the real question. Are you telling me the truth?
“El would have my head if you ran,” Peter just as easily replied. I don’t want to lose you.
Neal hummed to himself, making a show of considering his options, before flashing Peter a bright smile and a wink.
“Well, if you keep this up, I just might have to stay.”
It was not a profession of his undying loyalty to the bureau, or to Peter, but it was close enough for now and already more than Peter thought possible. Their trip may work out better than planned.
Before Peter or Neal could say anymore, there was a knock on the door from room service. Peter repressed a sigh at the interruption and opened the door while Neal cleaned off the table.
“Here’s your salad,” Peter dropped a covered plate in front of Neal and set his own dish on the table.
A bottle of wine was set out next and Neal arched an eyebrow.
“Wine? I would have pinned you for ordering a couple of beers,” he said as he picked up the bottle. “Peter, you are amazing. You managed to pick out the crappiest year possible for this wine, but I totally give you an ‘A’ for effort.”
Peter rolled his eyes as he sat down.
“What does it matter? Wine is wine is wine,” he defended.
“No, wine is not a rose so that doesn’t work,” Neal argued. “And what about that whole rolling eyes thing?”
“Shut up and just eat your food,” Peter grumbled.
It was impossible to not grin as Neal watched Peter pour the wine into a couple of glasses without a care in the world about angle and preparation. He carefully slid one of the glasses over to Neal who picked it up and sniffed it.
“Well, you could have done so much worse than this,” observed Neal. “And seriously, Peter? Are you seriously guzzling down wine alongside a cheeseburger?”
“What’s wrong with a cheeseburger? Do you have something against cheeseburgers?” Peter asked.
Neal shook his head with a somewhat amused expression.
“I have nothing against cheeseburgers.” Neal took another small sip from the wine glass. “I’m just wondering about your eating habits.”
Just to annoy Neal, Peter picked up his glass and took a particularly large gulp of wine.
“It all goes to the same place,” Peter sagely answered.
Giving Peter a look that told him Neal did not believe a word of it, Neal set his glass down and began picking at his salad. They passed the time in companionable silence, punctuated with the occasional asinine commentary, and towards the end of the meal, Neal poured himself another glass of wine. He found it curious that he stopped caring about the taste after a few glassfuls. After finishing his fourth glass off, Neal rested his arms on the table and began babbling about the operation tomorrow.
“So what are we going to do if he doesn’t like me?” Neal asked, words not quite slurred, but not quite as clear as usual.
Peter shrugged.
“I don’t think you have to worry about that. You made Hughes like you,” Peter pointed out.
“Psh, Hughes doesn’t like me at all,” Neal scoffed.
“No, he likes you…as much as he’s willing to like you anyways.” Peter actually could not tell if Hughes liked Neal, but he figured it would be a safe bet to assume he did, in his own way. There were not that many people in their building that did not like Neal.
Neal nodded his head tiredly and laughed.
“Good to know,” Neal said, “Though there’s something else I’d like to know. This guy doesn’t use guns, right? I mean, he’s not gun happy like that Avery guy, right?”
As far as Peter knew, their suspect did not resort to any weapons, but there was always that possibility. People were always capable of doing the unexpected when pushed into a corner. But, Peter kept his mind from such thoughts and hoped that their current record of getting by unharmed remained in tact.
“Not that we know of,” Peter admitted, “But I promise you, I won’t let anything happen to you.”
The suddenly tense and blank expression on Neal’s face surprised Peter, and at first, he was a little disappointed that Neal was thinking he would let something happen, but when he looked down to hide his indignation, Peter realized he was holding Neal’s hand.
Retracting his hand as if it were burned, Peter flushed and fiddled with his empty wine glass. Neal just remained frozen in the same position, his fingers twitching every so often. Finally, Peter became too uncomfortable with the looming tension and abruptly stood up. Out of the corner of his eye, Neal watched Peter begin to pace back and forth in a way that meant he was thinking too hard about something. Once again, the anxiety and nervous energy Peter was creating agitated Neal.
“Okay, I’m going to chalk this up to drunkenness, but what is this, Peter?” Neal suddenly blurted out. “You’ve been like this for a while now, and it’s even more noticeable since we’ve arrived. Is something wrong?”
Peter stopped his pacing, almost tripping over his own feet, and stared intently at Neal.
“Yes, I mean no. There’s nothing wrong. It’s just that I…” Peter threw his hands up in frustration and roughly ran his hand through his hair. “Dammit, Neal, I’m trying to seduce you!”
It was now out in the open, all the cards on the table. Peter unknowingly held his breath while he waited for Neal to answer.
“Seduce me?” Neal asked incredulously.
For a moment, Peter feared the worst when Neal failed to react in even the slightest bit. His blank expression remained firmly in place. That is, until there was the faintest twitches at the corners of his mouth. Peter slowly let out his breath.
“Peter, you do know that seduction is supposed to be alluring and filled with hidden, passionate lust,” Neal explained, his expression beginning to falter, “It’s not supposed to be, well, creepy.”
Peter did a double take when he heard that. The look of righteous indignation was too much for Neal’s tipsy mind to handle. He burst out laughing and could not stop himself.
“Creepy? I wasn’t being creepy. I really was being alluring and whatever else you said,” defended Peter.
This just caused Neal to laugh even harder to the point he fell out of his chair and had to hold his side. His breathing came in gasps as he failed to stop laughing long enough to take a breath.
“Unbelievable. This is what I get for all my efforts,” Peter grumbled to himself, “Dammit, that means El was right…I should have taken the note cards.”
Somehow, over the sound of his own laughter, Neal managed to hear that last part.
“Note cards? Really?!”
A new bout of hysterical laughter began anew and Peter figured it was probably best to just let Neal get it out of his system; which actually happened faster than he thought. It took longer than usual, but eventually Neal’s mind caught up with him and he realized what Peter had just said. The instantaneous shift from laughter to silence was jarring.
“Wait. Elizabeth wrote you note cards on how to seduce me?” Neal asked.
Peter nodded his head.
“But that would mean she’s okay with that?” The pitch of Neal’s voice climbed just a little bit higher.
There was another nod.
“And that would mean you’re actually serious about me?” He pointed to himself.
“I’m not telling you this because I think you laughing at my romantic overtures is fun,” retorted Peter. He exhaled loudly. “Neal, I mean everything I said.”
They lapsed into silence once more, but this time, there was no words left unsaid, no emotions hanging in the air threatening to suffocate them. It was a simple silence of coming to terms with life’s new direction.
“I’m flattered? No…I’m happy, Peter,” Neal softly rambled, “But there is so much that could go wrong with this, even though…even though I really want this to work.”
There was no need for Peter to answer. He knew exactly how their relationship could go wrong. Peter was never one to jump head first without thinking through the consequences. They could both lose their jobs and not to mention the legal trouble it could cause. But, Peter knew he would always have his wife, whereas Neal did not have anybody. And that did not sit well with Peter. Despite everything Neal had ever done, complete loneliness was not something he needed to be punished with.
It would take time, and a whole lot of work and headaches, but Peter sincerely hoped that, even if they lost their jobs, Neal would still have somebody he could turn to and trust.
“You don’t have to jump on the bandwagon right this minute,” Peter offered, “I just want you to know I’m willing to try and make this work, and God bless her, so is El.”
Neal pursed his lips as he processed what he was hearing.
“I need to talk to Elizabeth, and you, but for now, I really want this.” Neal made a vague waving motion indicating himself, Peter, and all the in between. “And you know I’m always up for a challenge.”
Peter could not help but smile and nod his head eagerly.
“I wouldn’t expect it any other way,” he agreed, “And when this is all over, I promise you we will talk as much as we need to, and when we get back, Elizabeth is already planning a day out just for you two.”
Maybe it was the change in their relationship, or the alcohol clouding his mind, but Neal Caffrey was elated and grinning his brightest smile at Peter.
“Great! We can talk all about how much you fail at seduction,” Neal joked.
With an embarrassed glare, Peter flipped the bird.
“Here or the bed?” Neal asked with a saucy grin and wink.
“Unbelievable,” Peter muttered under his breath. He shook his head and rolled his eyes at Neal’s smug giddiness.
“Hey, remember, rolling your eyes is juvenile and disrespectful,” Neal pointed out gleefully.
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Peter pulled out his cell phone and prepared to call Elizabeth. As he dialed her number, he could hear Neal laughing and enjoying himself in the background. This was going to definitely be a lot of work.
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